Lust Quest (4 page)

“He must like the music,” I proffered.

“He likes the free drinks he gets when he tells the bar staff that he's our roadie.

Would you like another vodka?”

“I've had too much to drink as it is,” I giggled girlishly, and then changed my mind. “Oh, go on then,” I said, deciding to drown my sorrows. “One more won't hurt.”

Feeling dizzy as Alan went to the bar, the room beginning to spin round, I knew that I shouldn't drink anymore. But, after the disappointing news from the literary agent, I decided to have a good time. I needed to get out and about and meet people, I again reflected. Especially if I was going to write erotic fiction. But a good time didn't mean pulling my knickers down and having my arse done. God, what an awful expression.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Alan asked as he brought the drinks to the table and sat opposite me.

“I'm a writer,” I replied, knowing from experience what he'd ask me next.

29

“What do you write?”

“Books,” I smiled, wondering what to say in response to the next inevitable question.

“What sort of books?”

“I ... I write romantic fiction but haven't been published yet. My agent ...”

“You've got an agent?” he interrupted me eagerly.

“Sort of. He's seen my novel and has turned it down so, technically, he's not my agent. He wants me to write ... He wants me to spice up my work.”

“Sex?”

“Yes.”

“And that's not what you want?”

“No, it's not.”

“Don't do it, Jade,” he advised me, hooking his hair behind his ears for the umpteenth time. “Write what you want to write, not what ...”

“The thing is, I need the money,” I confessed, wondering why he didn't have his hair cut. “It's all very well writing what I want, but if it's not commercial and doesn't earn money, there's no point.”

“There's

every
point.”

“Alan, what's the use in spending all day every day writing and not earning a penny? I'd starve, wouldn't I?”

“Yes, but ... I suppose you're right. It just seems a shame to have to churn out that sort of stuff.” He paused, his dark eyes staring at me. “Romantic fiction and sex

... Can't you bring an element of sex into the romance? After all, the two go together.”

“They want more than an element of sex. They want unadulterated filth.”

“Oh, I see. What are you going to do?”

30

“Finish my drink, go home and have some coffee, and then think about it.”

“I wish you luck. Whatever you do, don't give up writing. Oh, about Saturday

...”

“I'll be here.” I hesitated, pondering on the thought roaming my head. I was about to make a big mistake, I was sure. But I went ahead anyway. “Do you want to come back for coffee?” I finally asked. “Just coffee.”
Coffee, not sex
.

“OK, thanks,” he beamed, finishing his drink.

Walking home, I wondered what I was letting myself in for as Alan laughed and joked about writing dirty books. I wanted him as a friend, but no more. He'd turned out to be good company and was genuinely interested in my work. I'd enjoyed the evening with him and was looking forward to watching him play in his band on Saturday. But ... but what? My head spinning as the alcohol numbed my brain, I didn't know what to think. I
could
n't think.

“This is it,” I said, trying not to slur as I led him through the hall and showed him into the lounge.

“It's a nice place,” he smiled. “Really nice.”

“I like it,” I mumbled, leaning on the doorframe to steady my swaying body.

“Ah, Lowry,” he grinned, gazing at the picture above the mantlepiece. “A River Bank. That's one of my favourites. Excellent stuff. Do you have anything else by Lowry?”

“No, that's the only print I have.”

“Shame. I think Lowry was misunderstood. He ...”

31

“All artists seem to be misunderstood,” I broke in. “Misunderstanding seems to be a trait among artists.”

“Now, Jimi Hendrix ...”

“Where do you live?” I asked as he studied the painting.

“With my parents at the moment. I can't afford a flat. It's OK living at home, but ...”

Managing to stagger across the room and flop onto the sofa as he rambled on about the trials and tribulations of living with his parents, I tried to focus on the mantlepiece clock as the room span round. Finally joining me on the sofa, he talked about his music and how he hoped I'd enjoy the band on Saturday. I tried to make some sort of coherent conversation but the alcohol wouldn't allow my thoughts to turn into speech.

I don't know what possessed me to place my hand on his thigh as he moved a little closer. The alcohol, the dirty book, talking to Jackie about sex, masturbating ...

I'd not seen a man's penis for over a year, let alone clutched one in my hand. Were they all the same? I wondered in my alcoholic haze. I knew that they varied in size and began to wonder how big the musician's was. Fighting my uncharacteristic desires as I slid my hand further up his inner thigh, I wished I'd not invited him round and gone straight to bed. It was as if I had no control over my actions as I slid his zip down. What he was thinking, I didn't want to know. I didn't know what
I
was thinking as I thrust my hand into the opening of his jeans and groped for his penis. He probably thought me pissed, which I was - and an easy lay. Lay? Whatever happened, he wasn't going to lay me. What a terrible expression.

32

Watching my hand as if it was disembodied, I hauled his erect penis out. What the hell was I doing? I wondered, kneading the warm shaft of his huge organ. He said nothing as I gazed at his fleshy rod as if I'd never seen one before. Pulling his foreskin back and exposing the silky globe of his purple knob, my vaginal muscles tightening, I knew that I'd crossed the threshold. There was no turning back now.

Focusing on the small slit in his glans, my head spinning, I wondered what his knob tasted like. This would be a first, I ruminated. A battle raging in my mind, I was torn. I knew that I shouldn't have pulled his penis out and yet couldn't help myself.

Why was I so indecisive? I wondered, kneading the hardness of his warm shaft. The girl in the book had been mouth-fucked, I reflected, my vaginal juices flooding my panties. Did I want to be mouth-fucked? Did I want my mouth spermed? Why couldn't I make a decision? Who was whispering in my head, telling me right from wrong? My mother?

Remaining silent as I toyed with the loose flesh of his foreskin, Alan closed his eyes. I felt that, if I didn't grab the chance while I could, I'd regret it later. I either sucked a man's knob now, or forever lived without the experience. Many times in the past I'd decided against doing this or that when I'd had the opportunity. I'd usually wished that I'd gone ahead when it was too late, when the chance had sailed by like a passing ship. Was Alan a passing ship?
Take what you can when you can
, Jackie had always said. Did that include sucking the ballooning knob of a virtual stranger's penis?

33

Moving closer to his erect organ, I studied the veined shaft, the shape of the rim running around the base of his bulbous knob. I'd never examined a penis before.

With Alan the ex, I'd only guided him into my pussy, never really seeing his cock.

How many vaginas had this penis fucked? I found myself wondering as I gazed at the small bridge of skin running from the back of his knob to his foreskin. How many girls had taken his purple globe into their mouths and sucked out his sperm?
Take
what you can when you can.

Leaning over, my open mouth only inches from his beautiful knob, I hesitated.

What was wrong with me? I pondered. Jackie would have eagerly gobbled his knob, taken the full length of his penis into her wet mouth and sucked him to orgasm. There again, Jackie had fingered another girl's pussy and God only knew what else in the name of cold lust. Finally plucking up courage as Alan moved forward on the sofa, his penis swelling in my hand, I tentatively kissed his purple globe.

Breathing heavily, he reclined as I leaned over and sucked his plum into my hot mouth. Uncharacteristic thoughts hurling around the wreckage of my mind, I ran my tongue around the bulb of his silky-smooth knob, the salty flavour tantalising my taste buds as I moved my hand up and down his solid shaft. He was going to come in my mouth, I knew as he clutched my head and began to tremble. Was this what I'd wanted? I didn't know what I wanted as I instinctively bobbed my head up and down, his swollen glans repeatedly driving to the back of my throat. I felt like the tart in the book. Mouth-fuck. Mouth-sperm. Was I a tart?

34

Easing his balls out of his jeans, I gazed at the hairy bag as his sperm-spheres rolled and heaved. His solid shaft between my taut lips, his bulbous knob deep within my mouth, I watched his balls move within the thin bag of his scrotum as he gasped in his male pleasure. What did sperm taste like? I wondered as his body became rigid.

Mouth-fuck. Mouth-sperm.
Take what you can when you can.

His sperm finally gushing into my mouth, the salty liquid bathing my tongue, filling my cheeks as his cock rhythmically twitched, I swallowed hard. I'd done it, I thought excitedly. I'd actually brought a man off in my mouth. I wished that Jackie could have seen me as I drank from his orgasmic knob. But no. She'd probably laugh and inform me that she'd sucked her first knob when she was twelve-years-old.

Twelve, for God’s sake!

The white liquid running down his veined shaft and over my hand, I sucked out his orgasm until he pushed me away and doubled up as if in pain. Sitting upright and licking my lips as he recovered, I suddenly sobered up and realized that I'd behaved like a common slut. Alan would think that I'd taken him back to my flat to seduce him. He'd think me a slag for ... All I'd done was taken what I could when I could. Was that a crime?

“Jade,” he whispered, tugging his zip up. “Jade, that was something else.”

“Good,” I murmured, not knowing what to say as I felt my face flush. “You'd

... you'd better go now.”

“Yes, right.” Standing up, he adjusted his jeans and smiled at me. “I'll be in the pub tomorrow night if ...”

35

“I'm not sure what I'm doing tomorrow,” I said, knowing full well that I had nothing planned. I could feel sperm running down my chin. “I might be there,” I murmured, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I hope you turn up. It'll be good to see you again. I ...”

“Go now, Alan,” I broke in before he could say anything stupid about love.

What was love?

“Jade, I feel that I ...”

“Go now,” I repeated, rising to my feet and seeing him to the door before he had a chance to proclaim his undying love for me. “I'm sorry about the coffee.”

“Don't apologise,” he chuckled. “You were fantastic.”

Returning to the lounge, the taste of sperm lingering on my tongue, I couldn't believe what I'd done. Fantastic? He must have thought me a slut, a whore. To suck off a virtual stranger was so out of character. And, to make matters worse, I'd instigated the sordid episode. I felt disgusted with myself. There was no way I was going to that pub again, I decided. After the way I'd behaved, I knew that I could never face Alan.

At least I could now write about blowjobs as well as masturbation, I thought, pondering on the dreadful term. Laying full-length on the sofa, I wished that I'd not gone out with Jackie, or invited Alan back or sucked him off or ... What was done was done. But I'd never do it again. I was about to close my eyes and drift off to sleep when the front doorbell rang. “God,” I breathed, thinking that the musician had come back for more as I almost fell off the sofa. And never again would I drink too much.

Perhaps he returned to inform me that he'd fallen in love with me. Love? That would 36

be all I needed! Walking through the hall, I brushed my hair back with my fingers and took a deep breath. Perhaps I should pretend to be asleep in bed, I thought, hovering by the door. Best to get it over with, I decided.

“Hi, Jade!” Jackie trilled as I opened the door. “Thought I'd come round for coffee.”

“At this time of night?” I sighed. “It's almost twelve.”

“So what? Put the kettle on and we'll have a chat.”

“How was the nomad?” I asked as she followed me into the kitchen.

“The

what?”

“That dreadful man you were groping in the pub.”

“His name's Dave. He's great. We went to the park and walked by the pond.”

“And?”

“Well,

you

know.”

“Yes, I believe I do. How many men have you had?”

“Don't know, I lost count. Anyway, what about you?”

“Me?”

“How did you get on?”

“Alan came back for coffee.”

“Not another Alan?” she grinned. “Did you do it?”

“Do it? Jackie, sex isn't ... No, we didn't do it. We talked about writing books and poetry and music, and then he went home.”

Pouring the coffee, I eyed Jackie's dishevelled hair. There was grass on her skirt, and I imagined her on her back in the park as the nomad fucked her to orgasm. I 37

couldn't help thinking that her pussy would be full of sperm. I was about to tell her that she'd behaved no better than a slut, but realized that I'd been as bad, if not worse.

The pot calling the kettle black, as my father always said. I wanted to tell Jackie that I'd been mouth-fucked, but thought better of it. I was the pot, the sperm-pot.

“There,” I smiled, passing her a cup of coffee. “So, are you seeing him again?”

“I doubt it,” she replied dismissively. “He's broke so there's not much point.

Mind you, he was good in the park.”

“That's your criteria, then? Money and good in bed. Was he clean?”

“Clean?” she frowned.

“He looked dirty. I doubt that he's washed in weeks.”